


Honeymoon

by Lochinvar



Series: Amuse-bouche [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Boys In Love, Boys Will Be Boys, Brothers will be Brothers, Case Fic, Celebrations, Colorado, Enochian (Supernatural), Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff and Humor, Food, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Mountains, New Mexico, POV Alternating, POV Bobby Singer, POV Third Person, Pie, Protective Bobby Singer, Semi-Public Sex, Sigils, Silver Charms, Slice of Life, Spirits, Wedding Rings, everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: The boys wanted to talk. Rufus and Bobby were in the neighborhood.





	Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts), [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts).



> Part of the series about what happened when Dean said yes.
> 
> No one dies in my 'verse, unless on their way to another life.
> 
> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers. 
> 
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.

The boys wanted to talk. Sounded serious but Sam was coy on the phone. Calling from Denver. Said it was a surprise. Probably good news. Maybe not. Named a bar up in Leadville, Colorado (10,000+ feet) with bison steaks grilled over oak chips and a wall of craft beer and single-malt scotch. Tomorrow night? After sundown?

Bobby asked if the news involved the End of Days or such.

Dean yelled into the phone, “Maybe.”

And the boys started squabbling. Bodies crashed against a wall, but there was laughter.

Bobby figured either age regression or demonic possession.

The old Hunter ended the call with a jab of an arthritic finger.

“Idjits.”

\-----

Bobby and Rufus were down in New Mexico at a state university when Bobby got the call. They were delivering ancient artifacts to the anthropology department, sacred items they had recognized as Big Medicine and had liberated from a rundown gas station in the Texas Panhandle.

The owners had them displayed in a shadow box behind the counter.

The wife named a price and stuffed the bills down the front of her dress.

“Better take off,” she said. “My husband ain’t going to be happy when he comes home. I’ll tell him they was stolen. He thinks they give him good luck.”

“Lucky the spirits didn’t burn down the damn place in retribution,” said Rufus as they drove away in Bobby’s favorite truck.

The chair of the anthropology department was very grateful. Said she personally would ensure the totems were returned to the right people. She knew about the Supernatural; her Colorado ranch family had been saved from a cursed black dog by John Winchester when she was a teenager. Was delighted to hear the Hunters were meeting up with his sons.

Gave Bobby four silver flower charms from her own stash of ‘chanted white magic. Pretty things with petals carved from different shades of amber, known for its healing vibe. Nice heft.

“From a professor who grew up in an immigrant family in Chicago. See the snakes etched on the silver leaves? The best amber, you know, comes from Lithuania.

“Supposed to be good for warding off hangovers.”

Bobby gave Rufus first pick. Figured they would give the other two to the boys.

\-----

Headed up to Santa Fe, then Taos, Alamosa, and through Colorado’s Banana Belt, past the Collegiate Range. Talked about some casework that might take them to California.

The men traveled together more these days. Like an old married couple. The rough edges of their friendship had been worn down by shared tragedy and triumph. They fussed for personal entertainment, but the bite was gone.

The impact of the ancient spirits that dwelt in the mountain ranges was tangible. The sheer weight of their otherworldly mojo buzzed the Hunters’ anti-possession tattoos and left the smell of ozone in the air, even though the High Country sky was clear blue–no storm clouds in sight.

“Feels like St. Pete’s in Vatican City…but bigger,” said Bobby.

\-----

The sun had set by the time they got to Lake County. Pulled into Leadville and decided to stop at the motel most Hunters preferred. Sure enough, Baby was dozing at the end of the building in a dark corner away from the street lights. Bobby parked next to her, and the two men climbed out of the truck, stretching with their backs to each other on either side of the battered pickup, pretending not to see the other man tremble and stumble from stiff muscles and achy joints.

Affording an ole buddy private time. A courtesy you will learn as you get older.

Like a mirror, some days.

They would need more than beer tonight.

The men paused to say hello to the Impala, which thrummed softly in acknowledgement. Her tight, black skin reflected the starry night so perfectly that one could imagine she was a creature stitched together from remnants of the Milky Way arching over the mountain town.

“Gonna find your boys. What have they been up to, my best girl?” asked Rufus.

Baby wouldn’t tell, even if she knew.

Yeah, she knew.

The two men checked in, sharing a double with two twins to save a few dollars, then began their stroll to the rendezvous a few blocks away.

\-----

It was a loud, drafty night. Bars blared competing soundtracks–cable sports, electronic jukeboxes, and a live cover band from the 80s that hid ineptitude under jacked-up amps. A raucous wind from the west bouncing over and around the nearby peaks spilled into town, rattled windows, and sent trash tumbling across pavement and gravel.

Rufus and Bobby cut across an empty lot and approached their destination from a back alley. They followed the smoky aroma of searing meat, wafting from a commercial-sized outdoor grill screened off in an enclosed porch. A red neon sign winked on and off, painting the sides of the nearby buildings the color of blood. A couple of street lights swayed, moving shadows against the worn brick walls.

And above the cacophony of music and banging shutters and shouts the two friends heard the very specific sound of combat. Grunts and curses, clothing ripped, and bone and flesh colliding.

Then silence.

The old Hunters pulled out their guns in tandem and began to tiptoe around the corner of a chained wooden fence, where the dumpsters were locked down to discourage scavenging wildlife.

A fair fight is one thing. Maybe drunks swinging and missing, yelling to show off, then collapsing into oblivion. Warmish night, probably wouldn’t freeze. Their friends would come looking for them, eventually.

Or two young bucks, childhood friends once upon a time, angry about the girl who left them both for the city lights of Grand Junction, or a failed business, or an unforgiven insult. Finally, gonna settle. Maybe one of them is laid up with his nose pressed deep in the alley’s rubble, bruised, but still refusing to whisper “Uncle” through broken teeth. Right time to step in and send them both home. Flash the guns to save their honor.

Rape? A mugging? Sheer cussedness? Not a Supernatural case, but most Hunters don’t mind taking on human bad guys. When warranted. Save the day. Free whiskey. Good times.

Quiet, in any case, was not good. Rarely meant the combatants had shook hands and walked away.

Rufus and Bobby moved shoulder to shoulder, invisible in the shadows, silently balancing on the balls of their ancient boots. Rocked back and then turned as one into the side street behind the destination bar, their guns pointing the way.

The half-naked fighters, tattooed with dirty scratches, blood, and mud, stood partially hidden in shadows, sandwiched flat against the back wall of the bar facing into the alley. Too dark to see many details. Their torsos and legs were partially lit by lamps in the windows of the bar’s kitchen and a bare bulb dangling over the back exit.

Two grown men, broad shoulders, muscular, long legs, faded blue jeans unzipped and falling off their hips, showing glimpses of black underwear against pale flesh. They still were panting in the aftermath of their battle.

Bobby and Rufus cocked their heads in unison like a pair of old hunting dogs, puzzling out an unfamiliar scent. Their guns were kept at the ready but pointed to the ground. They were masked by the darkness, hidden witnesses.

The taller man was leaning against the brick, wearing a plaid shirt with a sleeve ripped out at the shoulder. One long arm was wrapped diagonally across the chest of the shorter man, a broad hand pressed against bare flesh, holding tight. The other hand was sunk deep into the open jeans beneath the black briefs. Moving slow and careful.

Attention to the moment like he had all the time in the world.

The shorter man was gripping the wrists of the taller dude, but it didn’t look like he was trying to get away. Nope. His hips were moving, a slow grind against the front of the man behind him.

Like  _he_ had all the time in the world as well.

The wind captured any sounds the men might have been making and blew them away into the night. There were flashes of silver from the rings each man wore, big enough to be seen at a distance.

Neither Rufus nor Bobby were voyeurs or prudes, but there was something beautiful in what obviously was a private moment, like classic Greek statuary posed against black velvet in a Victorian-era museum. Without thinking, one of the Hunters stepped forward to get a closer look at the rings (in retelling this story the partners always accused the other man of giving them away), ignoring what else might be going on.

Kicked a piece of gravel.

From nowhere, two familiar guns materialized, pointed towards the invisible intruders: a nickel-plated Taurus with pearl grips and an engraved Colt. Hell knew where they were stashed. Side by side.

“Kinda busy here,” a familiar rusty voice, stuttering a little, like needing to catch a breath, addressed the old men. The Colt waved them away, and as soon as Rufus and Bobby retreated next to the shelter of the wooden fence, the weapons disappeared, and the men in the shadows took up their slow dance.

Rufus and Bobby sheathed their guns in their shoulder holsters, turned, and walked around to the front of the building. Entered an aromatic foggy dreamscape of sizzling bacon fat, wood smoke, and the bar’s signature garlic butter. Rockabilly tunes from a custom jukebox collection had a few locals up on their feet, catapulting off the furniture in a credible version of authentic Texas Swing.  
  
The Hunters found a table in a corner and order a plate of fried jalapeno cream cheese poppers, bowls of blue chips and red salsa, a pitcher of something dark on tap, shots of Blue, and the two biggest steaks on the menu, bone-in, medium rare. A decent cole slaw and two onion blossoms dipped in buttermilk batter and deep-fried, on the side.  Brined kosher dill pickles, which Rufus considered a USDA food group. And a shared bowl of that garlic butter. (Bison, even cooked medium rare, can be a little on the dry side.)

They took their time, waiting on the boys. Not a word between them since they left the motel. Not a word since the alley except to order and “pass the beer”. Dawdled just a little, drinking ice water and slicing up a loaf of homemade bread to sop of the juices and pungent sauce from those really good steaks. Pie for dessert was a given.

The younger men appeared, making an entrance, sauntering towards their old friends’ table.

Looked like they took a shower and changed clothes. Dean had a cut on his cheek, and Sam had the beginning of a black eye. And peeking above the collar of their shirts were bruises, the kind teenage boys are prone to get in the back seat of their daddy’s car.

Two tall men in worn flannel shirts and jeans. Bumping shoulders. They were grinning, big smiles that deepened the laugh lines around their eyes, Showing off Sam’s dimples and Dean’s cheekbones.

Those identical thick silver rings, carved with Enochian symbols, looked a lot like wedding bands.

\-----

Bobby remembered when the brothers, eight and twelve, were playing in his salvage yard, having “borrowed” a couple of smaller bows from his collection. They set up a target range with hay bales and cushions and practiced with the same two arrows, over and over, all morning. Knew they were in big trouble for taking weapons without permission, but so proud at how they well they were doing. Even though they knew they were going to be punished they couldn’t resist charging into the kitchen and dragging Bobby out to show him.

Damn, they were happy.

He trotted back into the house and fetched his three best vintage hunting bows and a quiver of arrows fletched with turkey feathers. Spent the rest of the day teaching them the finer points. Punishment? No dessert for dinner he told them, which he promptly forgot when it came time to put the peach pie in the oven, the one he had been working on when the brothers attacked and led him over to the far edge of the yard.

What he saw in their faces that day and this evening was pure happiness, shadowed with a speck of trepidation and maybe a touch of guilt. They had called out to Rufus and him to share the most important and scary choice of their multiple lives (outside of the brilliant and reckless decisions they reliably made at predictable intervals concerning the future of the planet every few months). And he needed to treat the moment with respect, even as he knew it would take time to digest it all.

The younger Hunters greeted the older men enthusiastically, but Bobby and Rufus just nodded. Sam and Dean waited a moment, shrugged good-humoredly (nothing could spoil their mood), and claimed the empty chairs at the table.

Rufus selected a dill pickle and sucked the juice off the end.

Didn’t know if the boys recognized them in the alley, but Rufus decided to poke the bear. Like he would with any newlywed couple.

Pointed a finger at them, cocked back an imaginary hammer, pulled an imaginary trigger, and asked, in the same laidback voice he would use to comment on the weather, “So, who won?”

Much later, everyone present at the table could and would tell this story, and laugh. But not that night.

Dean and Sam froze in horror.

“Balls,” growled Bobby. He punched Rufus on the arm, hard.

Rufus yelped and cursed.

“Ain’t funny, man,” said Bobby.

“And you boys, you snap out of it,” he continued. “We may be old, but we surely remember those first times with the women we loved. Couldn’t think straight for weeks. Never been happier. Hope that’s what it’s been like for you. So, you married? Mighty nice rings.”

Dean stared at the red vinyl tablecloth, hands folded as if in prayer.

Sam took the floor, one hand covering Dean’s.

“Sam Campbell and Dean Winchester are. As of yesterday. Colorado frowns on incest, even between consenting adults, but they make it easy to get married. Buy a license, sign a form, and you’re done."

“Can we see those rings?” asked a chastened Rufus in apology, still rubbing his arm.

Sam’s face brightened. Dean still didn’t look up.

“Sure,” he said, a little of his eagerness returning, and he twisted the silver artifact off his ring finger and held it out for inspection on his broad palm.

Rufus raised an eyebrow, and Sam nodded.

The old Hunter picked up the piece. Was hit by the same surge of energy he felt driving in the Arkansas River Valley up from New Mexico. The Enochian hieroglyphics simmered in the bar’s bright lights. Held it in his open hand for Bobby to examine. Handed it back to Sam. Like most enchanted rings, it appeared to swell and then shrink to fit the owner’s finger perfectly.

Dean finally spoke.

“Sammy designed them. Mine’s the same.”

Sam smiled and ducked his head. Sweet and shy. Dean looked up, and the boys were caught up in each other’s eyes. Spellbound in the best way. Bobby thought it was like looking at twin stars, twisting around each other in a double helix. Much like their legendary soul bond.

“Well,” stammered the tall Hunter, suddenly eight years old. “Cas helped. Lots. They have been blessed with love. Intended to make people happy. Strong protection spells. All white magic.”

Both old men found it hard to speak.  
  
“Makes me happy that you boys are happy,” said Bobby, in what was, in retrospect, the sappiest moment in his long life.

“Mazel tov,” said Rufus. “Good life and peace to you, my sons.”

Silence and a reboot. The surprise was a big surprise, but then it wasn’t. Some things, even if they were never said out loud, you just knew.

A waitress bustled over with a fresh platter of chips and salsa for the newcomers. Dean smiled, warm and welcoming, but the trademark flirt was missing. His hand now was laced with Sam’s.

“What they ordered,” he said, nodding in the direction of the Rufus and Bobby.

The time-space continuum shifted, and the four friends were on track for a New Normal. Sam and Dean took turns telling a G-rated version of What Happened. [See [Permission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077234) for the details.] They had celebrated the night before at the _Ship Tavern_ at Denver’s iconic _Brown Palace Hotel._ Best classic cocktails and prime rib in town. And _Caramel Apple Bourbon Pecan Pie,_ specialty of the house.

Reminded Bobby of the amber charms. Pulled them out of his pocket and gave each of the boys one. An opportune wedding present.

“Let’s keep celebrating,” he said. “Gonna need these.”

It was going to be okay.

Bobby ordered _Palisades Peach Pie,_ another house speciality in season.  
  
“So…what are you, now?” asked Rufus. Hunters can’t help poking that bear, but Rufus was determined to do the right thing.

“Winchester. Winchester.” Sam pointed at himself and Dean in turn.

“But…partners? Husbands? Brothers? Soulmates? If we hafta introduce you to strangers outside of a case, what do we call you? What do you want? And what about old friends? Other Hunters? What do you want us to say?”

Rufus and Bobby knew that Sam and Dean might insist they didn’t care, but they sort of would.

The rumors had been swirling around the two brothers since Sam hit puberty decades ago. Probably some bets would be paid off in the following weeks. But no human or entity of average intelligence would dare say a word to their faces. If some idjit wanted to demonstrate their bravery with what they thought was a cleverly worded insult, Sam would shrug it off. Dean, on the other hand, would punch their lights out (or cut of its head, depending on the species of mortal or beast), and walk over the body without a backwards glance.

Dean straightened his shoulders, lifted Sam’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. Tenderly.

Looked at Rufus and Bobby and smiled a smile they had not seen since Dean was a kid. A good smile.

“Sammy? Tell the world he’s my first love, and my last.”

\-----

They ate, drank, laughed, walked back to the motel.

The boys smiled when Bobby scolded them the next day around noon.

"Try to keep up."

And tailgated the pickup the entire hour down into Denver.

The four men checked into the _Brown Palace,_ ate, drank, and laughed.

Put those amber anti-hangover charms to the test.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a meat eater, bison, aka buffalo, has a richer flavor than beef. And it is a very lean meat, so please don't cook past medium rare. And no ketchup. Save that for the fries and onion rings.
> 
> Visiting Denver? The old-style restaurants at the Brown Palace are worth a trip.
> 
> The drive up to Leadville is beautiful, but a bit scary if you are not used to mountains and mountain driving and idjit tourists and newcomers who think four-wheel drives can violate those pesky Laws of Physics.
> 
> Pretty sure that when Bobby and Rufus learn the surprise, it would not be a surprise. And not cause for more than a quick take for them all to be back to that New Normal.
> 
> An anthropologist friend of mine found priceless artifacts in a gas station in New Mexico. It happens.


End file.
